


Mostly To Yourself

by paleredheadinascifi



Series: Songs from a Broken Chair [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Hopeful Ending, Sad Patrick, Songs from a Broken Chair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 11:36:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20527394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleredheadinascifi/pseuds/paleredheadinascifi
Summary: In the first of a series inspired by each song from Noah Reid's Songs from a Broken Chair, a sad and lonely post-Rachel, pre-Schitt's Creek Patrick tries to figure out where it all went wrong.





	Mostly To Yourself

[ **Mostly to Yourself** ](https://open.spotify.com/track/3ekuFZ7OH0W273yIZsrQWK)

Patrick could hear the sounds of the city bustling outside his window, it was probably no earlier than 10 am, but that didn’t matter. Patrick had no where to be, no one needing anything from him.

He’d quit his job the same day he broke off the engagement with Rachel, and responded to an ad on Facebook about an apartment needing sub-letting for a month in Toronto the day after that. It had all seemed right at the time.

Like the problem wasn’t Patrick, it was the wrong relationship, the wrong job, the wrong town, the wrong friends.

If he could just get away, start fresh, it’d be better.

And if it wasn’t, at least he was doing it _his _way. If he was _“fucking up his life” _like Rachel had suggested when she spat angry words his way the morning he just couldn’t take it anymore, at least he’d be doing it they way he wanted to.

But it was some time after 10 and Patrick knew he should get up and do _something, _but he hadn’t even managed to open his eyes. The last time he’d seen anything other than the sweet pitch-black nothingness of sleep was around 3 am, when the whisky had settled softly in his bones, letting his brain turn off just enough to fall asleep with the sting of tears in his tired eyes.

Patrick didn’t know what had happened. When he went so off course.

This wasn’t him.

He used to think of himself as a take-charge kind of guy, the type of man who faces problems head on and deals with them.

Now he was alone – _lonely_– in a city of millions, and he couldn’t even open his eyes.

Even worse, he’s not sure that he’s actually bothered to try.

He knows if he gets up now, he’ll wake to an apartment as cold and as empty and as lifeless and as _not his_as his life before. He might do some job searching, go for a walk, call his parents – the same as he’s done everyday since he arrived in the city. He’d come home, throw his keys on the counter, check his phone (Rachel: 1 new message, 1 missed call), then turn on the radio as loud as it’d go just to hear something that isn’t nothing.

Because if he doesn’t surround himself with sounds to distract himself, Patrick will sit in the living room that isn’t his, close his eyes, and let himself feel how much he’s fucked up.

He’ll think about Rachel, and how he couldn’t give her what she needed, what she deserved. He couldn’t be her husband, he couldn’t be the father of her children, he couldn’t spend another second pretending that he could make it work if he just _tried _a little harder.

He’ll think about his last job, and how he never put in more than the bare minimum, was never eyed for a promotion, never felt proud of the work he was doing.

He’ll think about his parents, and how he couldn’t give them the grandchildren they so desperately wanted, how he couldn’t make _himself _happy and how he knew they could tell, and how sad it made them every time they spoke.

He’ll think about his future, and how he doesn’t know what it’s going to look like. How he’s 30, and can’t picture a single person, and single place, a single thing, that he _knows _will be there. How he can’t think of one thing he can count on, not one thing he knows to hold on to that will make him happy.

He’ll think about how much effort he’d put into everything once. How he’d tried to be the best boyfriend, the best employee, the best son, the best friend. How he’d get halfway there and give up because it never felt right but hey, fuck it, at least he’d tried, right?

He’ll think about how long he might let himself get away with this. How long he’ll let himself mope around and waste his life.

In moments of logic and clarity, when he’s taking a break from feeling sorry for himself, he’ll tell himself this won’t last forever, he just needs time. He’ll come around. Life always has a way of moving forward, and it’ll have to drag him with it.

But as Patrick lets his eyes crack open to the blinding sun pouring in through the window that isn’t his, above the bed that isn’t his, in this new life that was meant to be better but, still, isn’t his, he thinks about how many times today he’ll have to lie to someone.

Tell his friends he is fine.

Tell his Dad he is safe.

Tell his Mom he is happy.

Tell himself this is better. This is fine. You can be happy here.

He tries to tally them up, but he doesn’t even need to count them to know who he’ll lie to the most today and tomorrow and the next.

Because he knows that it’s mostly to yourself that you lie, in the end. Even when you count the big ones (_I can make us work, Rachel_), the little ones (_No, Mom, I’m fine, I promise), _the white ones (_It’s not you, Baby, I’m just tired)_, and the huge, life altering ones (_I want to spend the rest of my life with you), _nothing even comes close to the lies crammed inside your own mind, circling, echoing, trying to keep you afloat.

Patrick sighs, tears rolling down his cheeks and wetting his pillow, but he barely notices it anymore. He hears his phone vibrate – that incessant, irritating, wonderful, welcome noise – and reaches over to the bedside table to grab it.

_It’ll be Rachel, calling to scream at me, ask when I’ll be back, when I’ll be over this._

_It’ll be Mom, her voice quiet with worry, just “checking in,” because her only son ran away in the middle of the night like a reckless teenager._

But, it’s neither, it’s a caller-code Patrick doesn’t recognise. He wipes at his eyes and answers.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Patrick? Yes, Patrick! My name is Ray! Butani! I have just finished reading over your resume and I must say, I am very impressed. When can you start?"

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Mostly To Yourself by Noah Reid.
> 
> The plan is to write something Patrick and/or David related for each song from the album, because it's been on heavy rotation lately, and I thought it'd be a cute journey for us. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts x


End file.
